


City Watching

by AlpheccaCoronae



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: ? I guess?, Blood, Gen, Gore, Jet Star is 12, Jet Star uses He/She/They pronouns, Kid Fic, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Jet Star (Danger Days), The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR, and yes i use all of them in this fic, korse is a very bad person, sorry korse fans i havent read the comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlpheccaCoronae/pseuds/AlpheccaCoronae
Summary: At 12 years old, Jet Star spends their time gazing out at Battery City at night. It's the most relaxing place, to them, out in the Zones.A decade later, Jet will still swear this was the worst thing they've ever experienced.---Please heed the warnings here, this gets unpleasant. (even if i did really enjoy writing it)(also- not compliant with my other danger days fic. this is killjoy brainrot round 2. there are different headcannons :) )
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	City Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Major warnings for graphic violence and murder committed in front of a child. Check the end notes for a more in-depth description of the violence, or feel free to skip this one if it's not for you :)
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoy it, i crave the validation <3  
> and if you dont feel like it thats fine! kudos are wonderful too :)
> 
> (also i'm very british, so feel free to yank-pick ;) )

The Zones are always cold at night. Every night. No matter how hot the day has been, how hard the sun beat down, how the midday sand scalds whatever it can touch (and Witch help any ‘runner who doesn’t lace their boots up tight enough to keep it out).

The night of an irradiated wasteland is quiet, air clear and calming even if the winds pick up. Out here Jet Star feels open. Free in a way she never does back at the motel. Mom says it’s dangerous to be this close to the city, but Jet’s never seen anyone but himself out here at night. He’s been coming up here more often recently. Now that dad’s given them the greenlight to take the car out on their own, Jet can come up to their hill whenever they like. Even if his parents don’t necessarily have to know about it.

The glossy light of Battery City shines at him, a bright shadow set into the heart of the wasteland. _Like a growth_ , she thinks. _Like a tumour_. The land around the city’s outer walls is dead, deader than the Zones where at least there are bushes and cacti and tumbleweeds. At least there’s _people._

Even from Jet’s position, far away atop one of the few hills in the Zones that survived the bombs, there’s a clear track around this side of the city, a road churned up to mud from frequent Drac patrols set out to scour the outskirts for deserters.

Jet Star crosses his legs under himself. The wind’s picked up some, a light chill under their denim jacket. It’s empty right now, plain. It makes her stand out amongst the bright colours of all the other Killjoys in the Zones, but mom says they can decorate it, cover it in patches and scraps of other runner’s jackets when they let him, just like dad, and it’s already Jet’s favourite item of clothing.

Battery City’s always silent from up here, but Jet reckons it’s probably quiet down there too. Dad says all the residents of the City have to be home by the time the sun sets, and they’re not allowed to make any noise because otherwise bad people come to take them away. Jet thinks that everyone she’s ever met would have been taken away by now, the loudest time of day in the Zones is when the sun’s just gone down. People have the opportunity to get loud and rowdy for fun without sweating so much they dehydrate themselves. It’s one of the reasons Jet only comes out here at night. A Killjoy’s day ends late.

Something cuts though the silence of the night.

A yell— no, more like a scream. Jet Star snaps to attention, uncrossing his legs to crouch, eyes scanning the vast expanse of the desert. It sounded close. A figure dressed in Battery City whites emerges from behind a rocky ledge, stumbling to keep themself upright. Jet’s impulse is to call out, to help, but they wait a few more seconds just in case like mom always tells them and— _yeah, Dracs._

Jet’s heart hammers behind his chest as he crouches down as far as he can into the scraggly bushes. One of the Dracs lazily raises a ray gun, head lolling nauseatingly to the side, (but maybe that’s just the mask) and fires a shot directly into the person’s calf. They collapse with a guttural cry, face crashing into the rough desert sand.

There are three Dracs uniformly coming to circle the slumped body on the floor. Its leg charred and burnt, slowly oozing blood where the wound hasn’t fully cauterised. A fourth figure emerges from behind the rocks.

A tall man, barely illuminated by the moonlight, walks calmly over to the figure on the floor. The Dracs part silently to let him pass and even in the dark of the night Jet can see the razor-sharp point of his grin. He comes to a stop by the person’s head as they try desperately to push themself up on shaky arms.

They’re at eye level with his feet. Impeccably polished shoes marred with just a few specks of Zone-dust inches from their face. Jet thinks their gasping breaths must be fogging up the inky black of his dress shoes. But he just stands there, watching.

When the person finally relents, begs “please” in a trembling sob, he crouches down and seizes a hold of their hair, pulling their head back to stare him in the eyes. Their arms give in again, scrabbling for purchase against the sharp rocks of the wasteland floor.

“Say that again,” he purrs, and Jet’s stomach lurches.

She wishes she had the ray gun mom’s been teaching her how to use. She wishes she had parked the car closer to the top of the hill. She wishes she hadn’t come out tonight at all.

The person’s eyes water, a strangled gasp escapes from the awkward angle their throat is held at as the man brutally twists his hand in their hair. Jet doesn’t think they’ve noticed him reaching back for the stark white ray gun at his side.

“Please”

The grin stretches wider, grotesque across his face as he lifts the gun to their temple. They gasp, eyes impossibly wide, harsh breaths coming as choked little pants. They can’t see the gun— their eyes search frantically as far as their field of view will allow. Jet wonders if this is the first time they’ve seen the stars.

“Beg for it.”

The man presses the ray gun hard into the side of their head, and their eyes screw shut tight, tears leaving tracks in the dust pressed into their face from the desert floor. They whimper.

“Please”

The heel of a pristine shoe comes to down hard to grind their hand into the grit.

“Please— please I’ll come back– I’ll be— I’ll be—"

He crushes their hand down harder and Jet hears the bones of their wrist crunch under the pressure. A muffled scream forces itself past their clenched teeth.

“I’ll be good I _promise, please— just don’t—_ "

He squeezes the trigger.

Jet’s stomach lurches. She feels a cry caught in her throat, painful and choking, and realises a second too late that she’s brought her hand up to keep the sob from escaping. The rustle of dead bush on denim echoes in the bushes around them; a death rattle.

The man looks up at the ridge where Jet’s hidden, and he doesn’t dare breathe, wills his heart to stop beating if it’ll keep that man’s awful gaze from settling on him.

Piercing eyes scan over the brush, and Jet feels his eyes prickle from holding their breath. Their chest hurts, like it’s on fire.

His throat clenches hard, every muscle is screaming at him to move, to _please breathe_ , but Jet barely allows themself to blink.

The man finally relents. He must chalk it up to a snake or a rat or something. Jet Star still can’t breathe as he gestures to the Dracs to leave— head back to Battery City. He stops as he passes the corpse’s feet; turns and fires another shot into it’s back. His mouth curves with sick fascination.

Jet Star’s going to be sick. The sight of a human head caved in and half vaporized, the smell of burning flesh, from not breathing for so long she feels like her head’s about to cave in just like the body in front of her, smoking and alone in the desert and—

Jet Star pries his eyes open. Tears cling to his eyelashes, trailing in thick lines down his face. They let a shaky breath out between their fingers, and their head stops throbbing like its about to explode. A harsh intake of breath is as quiet as they can manage, and the burning in their lungs eases to a mild discomfort. Jet can’t move. If she moves the man will see her, blast her head open like the— the corpse that’s still seeping blood into the dry sand of the desert. Jet forces their breathing to come slowly. If they don’t they know it’ll turn into gasps and then sobs and then Jet’s going to fucking _scream—_

Panic finally catches up, wrenches Jet’s mouth open. He gasps into the dirt, hands shaking. Wet sobs wrack his body. He still- he still can’t move.

* * *

It feels like hours later when their head clears enough for Jet to pick themself up again, but the sky’s no brighter.

He sits back on his legs, wrenching his hair out from the dead of the bushes. Mom’s going to ask about that; Jet never has the patience to brush it herself.

The wind whips around Jet as she stands. She wraps her arms around herself and clutches, tight. Think about the cold. Think about the Witch. Think about home. Don’t look at it, _don’t look—_

He manages to turn away as he collapses, retches into the ground. Nothing comes up, but their throat has been so tight for so long it feels like a vice grip, like the muscles of their throat are about to seize.

Their hands are scratched, red raw where the rocks have pressed into their palms. They stumble back to their feet, and stagger back down the hillside to the car.

Jet can’t drive right now. She’s still shaking, and she keeps having to shut her eyes tight to block out the image of the body bleeding into the ground. More gore than human remains. Instead she locks the doors, double- _triple checks_ them, and curls into the back seat, knees pressed tight to her chest, and waits for sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> jet witnesses a drac shoot an escaped battery city resident. korse then threatens the person with physical violence, breaks some bones, and makes them beg for their life, before shooting them in the head. then jet holds their breath for a long time on order to hide from korse. there is brief description of the smell of burnt flesh, and of the gore of the corpse. jet dry heaves, but does not throw up. jet then locks themself in a car to stay safe.
> 
> tell me if you think i may have missed anything from here or the tags, i know a lot of this fic could be triggering to some people.  
> again, if any of this is triggering to you, please feel free to tap out and find something more pleasant to read :) <3


End file.
